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The little tree complains:
With its green dress all round.
Again asleep is the little tree,
And early wakes to the light;
He is covered with green leaves fair to see.
And says, "I am now all nicely drest,
Nor need be ashamed before the rest.”
And now, with udders full,
Forth a wild she-goat sprung,
Seeking for herbs to pull
To feed her young.
She sees the leaves, nor makes much talk,
The little tree again is bare,
And thus to himself he said,
Be they green, or yellow, or red :
The little tree slept sad that night,
He sees himself in the sun's first light,
And all the trees in a roar burst out;
But the tree cared little for all their flout.
What made the little tree laugh like mad?
In a single night soon back he had
Every needle he had before;
IN A CHURCHYARD.
How soft! how calm! what stillness breathes around,
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
SWEET Philomel! no more thy voice I hear
Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along :The task of love is done! Thy full-fledged brood No longer need thy care to cull their food,
And nothing now remains to prompt thy song; But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to thy lay of love.
THE EVENING CLOUD.
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
AN EMIGRANT'S THOUGHTS OF HOME.
THE HOLY ISLE.
FAR, far, amid those distant seas
We live and breathe for Heaven alone.
The same returning fervour brings;
How long those blissful days be thine,
Ir is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long, an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
In small proportions we just beauties see,
If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
When the broken arches are black in night,
When the cold light's uncertain show'r
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad, so fair!
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strains that the corn-reapers
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us; rest-thou art weary and worn!" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.